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User blog:Vox and the Vendetta/My Kin
If you have any questions, comments, or concerns, commenting is enabled or you can always contact me via Message Wall. Clarification| The base idea of this poem remains the same, but the diction, format, and flow, all were structured by me. Originally, this was a lighter-themed poem, but a drop of morbidity never harmed anyone... A message from the editor: This poem was originally written by my cousin, who is a citizen of the United States of America (born and raised). For their identification protection, I have created my own version of their piece and modified it in my own style. I do not at all feel superior to Americans (I am Canadian for God's sake, how superior could I be to probably the most promising land in the world), but in the wake of gun violence, I present to you this edition of My Kin. In the wicked land of the free, There is something else I need to be. With traditional red, white, and blue etched into my skin, It is of no surprise that this is my kin. O how the decorated banner soars above my head, It does not astound me that some people are better off dead. Fifty stitched stars on a canvas of red and white— And it will be I who paints a story of this particular night: In a setting where dusk meets day, The sky is streaked with a wretched tone of grey. A silhouette of a face is sketched in the blue-tinted moon— Alas, it is only twelve hours past noon. A rather strapping man in his splinter-patterned suit— Such a physique is designed to execute— He patrols underneath the dipper-dappled skies, With an eerie glint in his determined hazel eyes. A metal-made machine lay in his arms, peaceful at rest— With two golden stars patched on his jacket to left of his chest, He scans the darkness as if leafing through a book. But one figure has caused him to have another look. “Sir, sir! Please come out! If you are hiding, I can see you without a doubt!” After all, the hidden fellow didn’t seem at all afraid, As he then stepped forward, smiling as he swayed. Before the fellow could open his mouth to hint about something, He then seemed to realize, that the man in the jacket was hunting. The man had spotted something on the figure’s person that made him yell— If only the fellow had the time to tell— The machine was now pressed against the rugged man’s shoulder, And after treading backwards, this fellow appeared a lot less bolder— There was something else that the machine-wielding did not see— As it only took one clip and the fellow no longer felt his left knee. A second, a third, and a fourth would do— Yet the man still hadn’t got a clue. There was something else in contact with the fellow’s core, But all it took was four to get him on the floor. The moon now casts a copper-hued glow, There was a device on the fellow that the man clearly had to know. Rather than to call for assistance, he was all on his own— And the machine-carrying man gazed at only a telephone. Droplets of scarlet dripped from the fellow’s head, As the duo-star badged man left him to be dead. Fifty stars sewn in a navy blue square and fields of red and seas of white— This concludes the twisted story of this notable night. In the crooked home of the brave, I find that there must be a different way to behave. With the red of my blood, the white of my bones, and the blue of my veins buried under my skin, It is of no surprise that this is my kin. Category:Blog posts